PSYCHO!
by TheBoredQueen
Summary: I kissed his hands dripping red, I kissed his lips full of hate, I kissed his mind lost in madness, I kissed every part of his rotten soul. And then, he kissed me back.
1. INTRODUCTION

"I kissed his hands dripping red, I kissed his lips full of hate, I kissed his mind lost in madness, I kissed every part of his rotten soul. And then, he kissed me back."

PLOT

SARA LAUGHTERFIELD was her mask, a very well done one. She had learnt to hide behind a mask, to act as if she was polite and kind-hearted, she was not. She was mean, heartless, manipulative and psychotic.

And when her mask started to break there was no turning back.

CHARACTERS

india eisley as SARA LAUGHTERFIELD

heath ledger as THE JOKER

christian bale as BRUCE WAYNE

david mazouz as JASON TODD

cillian murphy as JONATHAN CRANE

PLAYLIST

»𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒! : i. ANARCHIST YUNGBLUD ii. MIGRAINE TWENTY ONE PILOTS iii. CHOKE I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME iv. NIGHTMARE HALSEY v. KILLING STRANGERS MARILYN MANSON vi. DOCTOR LOÏC NOTTET vii. GASOLINE HALSEY viii. MY STRANGE ADDICTION BILLIE EILISH ix. TWISTED MISSIO x. HEATHENS TWENTY ONE PILOTS xi. BLOOD / WATER GRANDSON xii. MR. FEAR SIAMÉS xiii. BRUISES AND BITEMARKS GOOD WITH GRENADES xiv. STAYING UP THE NEIGHBORHOOD xv. HOMEMADE DYNAMITE LORDE xvi. FOREVER AND EVER AND MORE NOTHING BUT THIEVES xvii. BAD GUY BILLIE EILISH

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello there! I've been wanting to write a Joker's fanfic for a while now but since I have seen The Dark Knight trilogy and Gotham in English I don't feel comfortable writing one in Spanish, which is my first language. So, I apologize if there are any grammatical mistakes and if you notice any please tell me.

I will add more characters as the story goes on. Also, I know British English, I'll try making it sound more American but I'm not very good at that. Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy it.

*story also updated on Wattpad


	2. ONE

VICTIM NUMBER THIRTEEN

"have you heard of Frederick Hunt?"

i.

(james gordon)

MONDAY MORNING, half-past nine a.m. and time for the third coffee of the day —black, no sugar.

Wayne's secretary —a long legged blonde girl with an operated nose— had told him that Mr. Wayne and Miss Laughterfield would arrive soon but that had been twenty-six minutes ago.

There had been seventeen victims, Miss Laughterfield was number thirteen —unlucky number— and she was the last one he would question about the Scarecrow and the experiments he practiced on them. Out of the seventeen, only fourteen were still alive —two had died because of the fear toxin and another had committed suicide after those events— and all of them went regularly to therapy, were planning on moving out of town or purchased a new security systems for their houses out of fear. All of them except Miss Laughterfield, victim number thirteen.

He knew the protocol, he would shake hands with her and tell her the GCPD was doing everything they could to sent Scarecrow back to Arkham where he wouldn't be able to hurt them ever again. He knew the protocol —and yet he forgot it when he saw her.

She was laughing.

The elevator door opened and Wayne seemed to be explaining a funny story about his time in Europe and Laughterfield was laughing. All the other victims were terrified when he spoke to them but to Sara Laughterfield —the pretty face— it seemed as if nothing memorable had happened two weeks ago.

"Ah, Commissioner Gordon. I see you're already here." said Bruce with a cooky smile, his suit was probably more expensive than Gordon's house.

Sara offered him a polite smile —not kind, just polite— which Gordon mentally added to the list of important things to know about victim number thirteen. "Good morning."

"Oh, don't bother. Sara here is a firm believer that no Monday morning is ever a good morning." He said to which Sara chuckled softly, then he added "I don't understand why you complain so much about Mondays."

"Well, that- dear Bruce, is because -unlike me- you don't have a real job." She finally spoke, her voice was like velvet and there was a smile threating to appear on her lips.

She was wearing high heels and a blue shirt, expensive. The operated blonde brought a black coffee to Bruce and a latte macchiato to Sara —she had memorized their orders. "Isn't she funny?"

"Yes, Mr. Wayne. Uhm- could I talk to Miss Laughterfield alone?" He fixed his glasses a little uncomfortable to discuss such traumatic experience in front of Sara's boss.

"Bruce can stay, everything I will tell you he already knows." It was not a suggestion but an statement, she trusted Bruce.

"Alright then. Miss Laughterfield, if you could tell exactly what you remember about the place where Scarecrow kept all of you... I know it's a terrible experience but-"

"A basement, artificial light and yellowish windows, most of them were cracked. It was a big place since all the animals were roaming lose. And there was this awful smell, something chemical and, and lavander -which is weird." She was drinking small sips from her latte macchiato while talking about it as if it was sometimes as casual as the last futbol match or the weather. "We where somewhere in the Narrows because at some point we heard an explosion very close, after the Scarecrow set us free. Bruce told me that explosion had been the Joker going Friedrich Hund."

James was taking notes but he stopped when he heard that name —Friedrich Hund— he stared at her looking for something but without knowing what he was looking for.

The Scarecrow's most recent criminal activity had been the one Sara had been victim of. It was a test of a new variation of his gas —now in liquid form— to different people who had, specifically, phobias related to animals. Then he had taken some animals form different pet shops and from the Gotham Zoo and made those affected by his toxin remain in the presence of the animal they feared the most. Victim number thirteen had a dog phobia, and yet —and yet she hadn't reacted to dogs, she had attacked people.

It was uncommon for her to recall with such detail the traumatic experience —most victims could only remember terrible beasts and darkness— but he was not the one to judge. If Sara could bring any light to the matter, he would use her.

"I'm sorry to interrupt -there's a problem in HR. They need you, Miss Laughterfield." The blonde spoke, shy in presence of her boss but with the desire of being acknowledged by him.

"It seems our conversation will have to end Commissioner Gordon -I hope what I've told you is useful for your investigation. Stacy here will give you my personal phone number and address in case you need to contact me in the future -now if you excuse me..." There was a hint of pride in her voice, she talked with authority and demanded nothing but respect —she wouldn't settle for less—and there was chemistry between her and Bruce. He smiled at her and Sara touched his arm in an affectionate gesture before leaving.

"How old is Miss Laughterfield? -is she from Gotham?" He asked once Bruce and him were alone, there was confusion in his eyes.

"Uh, yes, she's from here. I think she's twenty-six, but I'm not sure. Why are you asking?" Bruce had the looks of an spoiled rich boy but his eyes had a darkness not many noticed. Sometimes James forgot who he was talking to —Bruce Wayne, son of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

He hesitated wether it was appropriate to share his concerns, there was no solid proof that there was something wrong about Sara Laughterfield —just her strange reaction to Scarecrow's drug and a feeling in his guts. "Have you heard of Frederick Hunt?"

"Yes, he was a pyromaniac and a terrorist from the 90's. Why is it relevant?" He questioned.

"He was a veteran from the Army and a police officer once, that's why what he did is even more terrible. It was during the downfall of Gotham, after-" he was going to say 'after the Wayne's death' but then remembered he was talking to that very same boy who had seen them die. "After the city was corrupted by criminality. Frederick Hunt put a total of eighty-two bombs around the city -and during seven days Gotham became a minefield."

"A washing machine, a traffic light, your neighbor's car- everything could have a bomb in it. We ended up catching him but the masacre he had left behind..." He had to stop speaking, trying to erase the memory of blood and fear everywhere, too many dead bodies to count them. It had been something he would never forget, never. "He had no reason to do it and we thought he was insane, but they did some tests in Arkham and they decided he was not. I was in the armoured car that transported him to Blackgate."

There was no cocky smile nor comments coming from Bruce, he was listening very carefully with a seriousness not many men were able to achieve. Gordon continued with his story after the secretary handed him Sara's address and phone number. "He talked to me during the ride. He said that people always wrote and pronounced his name wrong -in the news, the papers, and even in the police report. He said: my name is not Frederick Hunt but Friedrich Hund."

Friedrich Hund.

"It's German." He added to clarify why people said it wrong, the pronunciation was almost the same between the two names.

"I didn't know that, I don't think most people know that." Wayne said which could perfectly be translated to —then why does Sara know it?

iii.

(jonathan crane)

THERE WERE BITE-MARKS on his neck still unhealed, they would leave a scar. His left arm was broken and he had a fracture on his ribs —in conclusion, he was in pain.

He could taste the blood on his lips while the voice inside his head made his pain even more unbearable. He had slept for three days after the incident —and he had had abominable nightmares each and every one of them.

The experiment had been successful, the experience itself not so much.

The liquid drug was —following his hypothesis— more reactive to subjects with an animal phobia when they were in presence of the physical animal instead of an hallucination created by their terrified minds. That was in most subjects but there was an anomaly, a black sheep —an exception.

Subject 7OT4662, Sara Laughterfield.

As he usually did before he had his medical licence revoked, he had archived documents of all his subjects. Basic information about them (age, gender, blood type, medical history, race, phobias if any, allergies...) but with odd subjects he also had written notes about them. His notes were usually about their reaction to the toxin but his notes about Sara Laughterfield were specifically about her.

He read out loud. "Violent reaction to the serum, seems to be perfectly aware of her surroundings -unaffected by the presence of dangerous dogs. Hostile towards humans."

Then he had transcripted the words she had said under the influence of the liquid fear. "There was a kid and a dog. The dog killed the kid, I killed the dog."

That and what she had said before attacking him —before biting him and beating him. "Kill the dog before he kills you."

In his medical opinion Sara Laughterfield —with the toxin inside her blood—seemed to have shifted her dog phobia toward human beings, turning her violence towards them. It was very strange, but interesting nevertheless. "What are you hiding Miss Laughterfield?"

She had a dog, it was an extremely aggressive Doberman who was going to be sacrificed for killing its previous owner before Sara rescued him. Sara chose it because she was afraid of the dog —therapy through exposure.

Very risky to do so with such beast.

Although, when she had attacked him she had been worst than a rabid animal, bloodshot eyes and a brutality only presence in deranged beings. That was the reason why he had opened the doors letting them all go —otherwise she would have killed him.

He was sure of it.

He sat down reading his notes again while he drank some tea, white, not too strong. Sara was born and raised in Gotham, there wasn't many information about her childhood but that was habitual in Gotham. She studied Law in New York where she graduated with honours, soon after she started working at Wayne Enterprises, at Human Resources. She also seemed to have a close friendship with the owner —Gotham's favourite orphan, Bruce Wayne.

Her apartment was somewhere in the City Hall District, maybe one day he would pay her a visit —he needed more information for his investigation.

That day would not come.

Police officers from the GCPD were in the streets of the Narrows, and they had found the location of the abandoned perfume factory —with a soft lavander smell— where Jonathan Crane had set his office. Usually his subjects were not aware of their surroundings therefore he didn't expect to be found —What a surprise when they did. "GCPD, we know you're here Crane. Come out."

He groaned in pain. "Fuck."

His tea was left on the table forgotten. His wounds still hurted but he needed to do something to escape, he was not going back to Arkham —not without a fight at least— he grabbed some gas pumps and out his mask on.

The Scarecrow was ready to steal the show.

iii.

(sara laughterfield)

IT WAS FOUR A.M., Tuesday —too late for a drink, too early for a coffee— her tv was still on and all her plastic plants seemed to be dying. Her dog was barking in the living room and the guy who was fucking her was squealing, like a pig.

"Choke me -oh, Susan." Moaned the pig. Her name was not Susan, but close enough —She didn't really care what Mr. Pig called her— There was a shift and she was on top of him, ridding his dick while choking him. If she applied more pressure Mr. Pig would die in her arms —perfect for Thanksgiving— with his dick still deep inside her. She would enjoy that way more than sex.

Maybe Mr. Pig would enjoy it too.

He was so close to the climax he started to cry, his mind was lost in the limbo between fear and pleasure. Sara —that was her name, not Susan— was not so lucky.

In her analytical opinion pleasure and pain were not in the body but in the brain, and to feel either one had to stop thinking —Sara couldn't do that. She always seemed to cogitate too much and that had made her numb. She was thinking about the sound of the television coming from her living room, about the blood-thirsty beast she called dog, her seemly dead plastic plants, the new IKEA catalogue that would come out next week, —and, above all those things, she was focused on the fucker she was choking and the sounds he was making.

Oink, oink, oink.

She suddenly wanted to kill him— to slaughter him like the pig he was. But then his release came and the noise stopped.

It was four-eleven a.m. and Sara wanted a coffee, or a drink, maybe both. She got up and watered her plastic plants —as stupid as that is— in a useless attempt to give them life, but they were inanimate objects —just like her.

Her dog had no name, it was just 'dog'. Sara knew it had killed its previous owner and she was intelligent enough to never keep her guard down when in his presence, just in case. The dog hated her and she hated the dog, but they tolerated each others existence. Only that.

Her kitchen was clean and perfect, out of a magazine —or better yet, out of an IKEA catalogue— she sat in the 'Bernhard' chair and played with an item she had purchased impulsively at six a.m. some other night, it was called Slap Chop and it was completely useless, it had given her the satisfaction she could not archive through sex because of her numbness.

Whenever Sara turned the tv on her mind stopped working —it was kinda liberating— and simply absorbed all the trash tv as a form of masturbation. The cooking contest with Gordon Ramsey, the cheesy rom-com, the Argentinian soap opera of which she couldn't understand a single word —although she cried and laughed as if she was the main character and not the viewer drinking vodka and coffee at half-past four in the morning.

Pleasure and pain were the most thrilling human emotions —and now they were for sale.

Sara Laughterfield was a pretty face, and underneath... To be honest she wasn't really sure what hid underneath. What she knew for sure was that it had been three weeks since she had succumbed to numbness, —twenty-one days, five thousand and four hours.

And all of that was because the man on the news.

"The Scarecrow has been sent to Arkham Asylum a few hours ago, Commissioner Gordon has refused to talk about the criminal and the tragedy he caused three weeks ago." Three weeks— She remembered everything as if it had happened a few days ago, the pain, the fear. Real fear —not that shit they sell on Amazon—, which made her be eager for more. She was getting tired of her pretty face, she wanted to see what was underneath.

Blood is never as beautiful as they tell you it is, it is red and hot and tasty —not in a Thai food kind of tasty— it tastes like blood. Nothing ever compares to it.

She bit her lip frequently —to feel the pain, to taste the blood— and the wound hurted every time she drank her lemonade for breakfast. There's satisfaction in fear and pain, a strange difficult-to-digest satisfaction she enjoyed deeply.

Sara was terrified of dogs— it didn't matter if the dog was the kindest, she could only see its sharp theeth —dogs could kill if they wanted to, and some did want to— just like her dog. During the hours she had been subjected to the deliric effect of the experimental drug she had seen Jonathan Crane as a rabid dog —and yes, she was afraid of dogs, but she also hated them.

That's why she had tried to kill him.

She had been different, she had been completely terrified —afraid of everything around her— but somehow, that fear had made her furious. Her mind blinded by rage had made her reckless. She had tried to kill him, the Scarecrow, and she had almost succeeded —if she closed her eyes she could still feel her hands around his neck.

She drank her coffee with Vodka while purchasing through a phone call another useless object from the tv, the pig was snoring loudly and she was thinking about murdering the Scarecrow —maybe one day she would have the chance to, maybe she would, maybe that night she would kill Mr. Pig out of boredom, maybe she would not.

Maybe one day something would snap inside her beautiful head and she would finally be able to see what hid underneath that pretty face of hers.

AUTHOR'S NOTE—(hey I'm sorry this story has been on hold for so long but I didn't seem to find the inspiration to write it even if I wanted to, I've reorganized my ideas and I'll try to update soon. I hope you've liked this chapter, bye)


	3. TWO

THE GOOD DOCTOR

"dissociative amnesia"

i.

(bruce wayne)

HE LAUGHED AT A JOKE that wasn't funny, out of courtesy —he tried to convince himself— but the truth was he laughed exactly because the joke wasn't funny, because the joke wasn't a joke but an statement —so tragic and yet so pathetic the only thing one could do was laugh.

As he was now, as she was.

Sara was wearing a red dress and she had had her nails done recently, he would have not noticed if not for the feeling of her nails scratching the back of his neck while kissing him. Now, in the public eye, they simply smiled and talked as if they were friends —and not almost lovers.

The restaurant was Sara's favourite —that's why he had chosen it— and the food was exquisite. They had just finished dessert, tartelettes au chocolat. When the bill arrived she slightly moved it towards him which made Bruce smirk. "I didn't know I was paying for lunch."

He had been spending much more time than usual with Sara— he had his night activities and the memory of Rachel still casted a shadow over his soul, but Sara was always understanding and he liked her. He really did. But sadly that was not the only reason why Bruce was spending so much time with her —he knew there was something off about her and he wanted to know what it was.

Sara drank what was left of white wine in her glass and teased him with a smile. "Well, after all you're the millionaire."

"Billionaire, actually." He corrected and she chuckled.

He payed the bill and they left together. The streets were drowned in dirt and police sirens and gunshots were the background music of that dreadful sight —Gotham was not a good place to live in, but it surely was a good place to die.

That's why Sara stayed, that's why everyone stayed.

"Susan? -Is that you?" They both stopped their tracks as when a stranger came closer to them, he flustered when he recalled his night with Sara and smiled sheepishly —Bruce left them space— They were not exclusive so he could have his fun with Selina and Sara with whoever she had chosen for the night, but now Sara was regretting having chosen that guy of all people, whenever she was uncomfortable she moved closer to Bruce, exactly as she was now. "I wanted to call you but I don't have your number, maybe we could hang out someti-"

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else -I'm not Susan." And technically she was not lying.

It had been two weeks since that one-night-stand but the stranger carrying a Starbucks coffee with the letter A badly written remembered perfectly her face, and the fact that she denied being the one he had fucked, annoyed him —making him rude. "Don't lie, you- I know it was you, I know it."

What a pig.

Bruce had kept his distance to see how Sara would react, just in case. But when the stranger grabbed her arm he stepped in forcing the stranger to let her go.

"The lady here said she's not who you think she is, let her be." Bruce said in a polite tone that was more like a warning, his voice was deep and there was an anger buried in his soul threatening to come out.

"Back off! This is none of your business." He hissed. "Why are you saying that Susan? -I'm a nice guy."

Then it happened.

A couple was walked besides them but the only thing Sara could see was the Golden Retriever they had —Sara stopped thinking, she stopped breathing and tried not to scream.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

"Sara? Sara are you alright?" Bruce asked worried but she could not answer, her neck was tight and words were abstract. He had seen her affected by a dog's presence before but not like that, she usually flinched or tried to maintain a distance but now she was having a panic attack.

bruce knew she was terrified of dogs— and it was not simply fear. Fear can be persuaded or rationalised, but a phobia cannot be discussed or cured because it is not as rational. Sara knew the Golden Retriever who moved its tale happily was most likely a good boy, but the only thing she could see was its sharp teeth and the possibility —even if it was small— that the dog attacked her.

Kill the dog before he kills you.

Once you see something as dangerous you cannot simply pretend it is not.

"What's wrong with her?" Asked the stranger.

"Leave. Now." Bruce ordered. He focused on Sara; She was hyperventilating, her eyes had darkened and her mind was imprisoned in a dark basement —A childhood memory it would be better to bury— Bruce held her face forcing her to stop looking at the dog. "Look at me Sara, Look at me. You're alright -you're safe. Nothing is going to hurt you, you're safe."

It took her a couple of minutes to calm down, minutes in which she stared at Bruce's brown eyes with fascination. It was then when Sara realised Bruce was the only thing she didn't hate about her life —quite the opposite— She hated her job, Gotham, Amazon, Ikea, her Slap Chop and her dead plastic plants. She hated everything except him, she could never hate him. "Thank you, Bruce. I'm sorry-"

THE GOOD DOCTOR

"dissociative amnesia"

i.

(bruce wayne)

HE LAUGHED AT A JOKE that wasn't funny, out of courtesy —he tried to convince himself— but the truth was he laughed exactly because the joke wasn't funny, because the joke wasn't a joke but an statement —so tragic and yet so pathetic the only thing one could do was laugh.

As he was now, as she was.

Sara was wearing a red dress and she had had her nails done recently, he would have not noticed if not for the feeling of her nails scratching the back of his neck while kissing him. Now, in the public eye, they simply smiled and talked as if they were friends —and not almost lovers.

The restaurant was Sara's favourite —that's why he had chosen it— and the food was exquisite. They had just finished dessert, tartelettes au chocolat. When the bill arrived she slightly moved it towards him which made Bruce smirk. "I didn't know I was paying for lunch."

He had been spending much more time than usual with Sara— he had his night activities and the memory of Rachel still casted a shadow over his soul, but Sara was always understanding and he liked her. He really did. But sadly that was not the only reason why Bruce was spending so much time with her —he knew there was something off about her and he wanted to know what it was.

Sara drank what was left of white wine in her glass and teased him with a smile. "Well, after all you're the millionaire."

"Billionaire, actually." He corrected and she chuckled.

He payed the bill and they left together. The streets were drowned in dirt and police sirens and gunshots were the background music of that dreadful sight —Gotham was not a good place to live in, but it surely was a good place to die.

That's why Sara stayed, that's why everyone stayed.

"Susan? -Is that you?" They both stopped their tracks as when a stranger came closer to them, he flustered when he recalled his night with Sara and smiled sheepishly —Bruce left them space— They were not exclusive so he could have his fun with Selina and Sara with whoever she had chosen for the night, but now Sara was regretting having chosen that guy of all people, whenever she was uncomfortable she moved closer to Bruce, exactly as she was now. "I wanted to call you but I don't have your number, maybe we could hang out someti-"

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else -I'm not Susan." And technically she was not lying.

It had been two weeks since that one-night-stand but the stranger carrying a Starbucks coffee with the letter A badly written remembered perfectly her face, and the fact that she denied being the one he had fucked, annoyed him —making him rude. "Don't lie, you- I know it was you, I know it."

What a pig.

Bruce had kept his distance to see how Sara would react, just in case. But when the stranger grabbed her arm he stepped in forcing the stranger to let her go.

"The lady here said she's not who you think she is, let her be." Bruce said in a polite tone that was more like a warning, his voice was deep and there was an anger buried in his soul threatening to come out.

"Back off! This is none of your business." He hissed. "Why are you saying that Susan? -I'm a nice guy."

Then it happened.

A couple was walked besides them but the only thing Sara could see was the Golden Retriever they had —Sara stopped thinking, she stopped breathing and tried not to scream.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

"Sara? Sara are you alright?" Bruce asked worried but she could not answer, her neck was tight and words were abstract. He had seen her affected by a dog's presence before but not like that, she usually flinched or tried to maintain a distance but now she was having a panic attack.

bruce knew she was terrified of dogs— and it was not simply fear. Fear can be persuaded or rationalised, but a phobia cannot be discussed or cured because it is not as rational. Sara knew the Golden Retriever who moved its tale happily was most likely a good boy, but the only thing she could see was its sharp teeth and the possibility —even if it was small— that the dog attacked her.

Kill the dog before he kills you.

Once you see something as dangerous you cannot simply pretend it is not.

"What's wrong with her?" Asked the stranger.

"Leave. Now." Bruce ordered. He focused on Sara; She was hyperventilating, her eyes had darkened and her mind was imprisoned in a dark basement —A childhood memory it would be better to bury— Bruce held her face forcing her to stop looking at the dog. "Look at me Sara, Look at me. You're alright -you're safe. Nothing is going to hurt you, you're safe."

It took her a couple of minutes to calm down, minutes in which she stared at Bruce's brown eyes with fascination. It was then when Sara realised Bruce was the only thing she didn't hate about her life —quite the opposite— She hated her job, Gotham, Amazon, Ikea, her Slap Chop and her dead plastic plants. She hated everything except him, she could never hate him. "Thank you, Bruce. I'm sorry-"

Bruce stroked her cheek affectingly. He cared about her more than he dared to show, —Sara was falling for him— and unluckily he felt the same about her. Bruce didn't want to hurt her, he didn't want her to end up like Rachel but he couldn't help himself.

He would have told her the truth —abouth who he truly was— but he knew it was not the right time to say it out loud so he bit his tongue and kissed her forehead.

"Don't apologize, you've done nothing wrong." He was worried, when Sara had gotten her dog her panic attacks around those animals had been very few but since the Scarecrow incident every dog terrified her —every dog was a threat, every dog was dangerous. "Have you thought about what I told you?"

"Yes, Bruce, and I won't go to therapy again -not now, not ever." They kept walking and at some point Bruce put his coat over her shoulders, it wasn't freezing outside but she was still shaking because of the fear and Bruce had no idea of what else to do to make her feel better. Her next statement was a lie, and they both knew it. "I'm fine, I'm totally fine -I don't need help."

"Just do it for me, Sara. I will feel better knowing at least you tried therapy." He had those sad devastating puppy eyes no-one else knew how to do —the peaks of being an orphan.

"Fiiine. I'll go to ONE session, I don't promise you more." She held his coat closer trying to find comfort in it in a gesture Bruce found cute —it had whatever far too expensive cologne he had chosen for their date and she seemed to love the smell. "But you've to pay a price- you're coat, it's mine now.

"I wouldn't want it any other way." He said with a smile before kissing her sweetly.

The ride to her apartment was short and quiet —but not the uncomfortable type— they both enjoyed the silence. Bruce was tempted to ask her about Friedrich Hund but in the end he decided it was not the time or the place to do so —and also, it was just a matter without importance, maybe she had read somewhere Hund's family was originally from Germany and decided to pronounce it the right way.

Yes, that was probably it.

But he needed to ask something, he had to be sure. Sara was one of the few people he genuinely cared about and trusted, even if he had not told her everything about himself. He had already lost Dent to madness, he wanted be sure —without any kind of doubt— that Sara Laughterfield was on his side.

"Why did you attack the Scarecrow?" The question ledt his lips before he could stop it, the answer itself was simple —because she was under the effect of the drug— but what he wanted to know was why it had been him and not the dogs or the other victims.

Bruce looked at her conflicted eyes, her fingers were still touching his. When he let go Sara answered him. "Because he was a bad dog."

ii.

(sara laughterfield)

ONLY TWELVE MINUTES into the therapy session with Jane Decker and Sara already wanted to kill her.

She didn't, obviously —but she wanted to.

All that Chakra healing and guided meditation shit made her want to try her Slap Chop on Jane's face, but it was only a temporary feeling. Then, Jane smiled at her kindly and asked her about her week with honest concern —she was passionate about her job and that made her worry about her patients— she often rambled because of an hyperactivity disorder she had, Jane was against medication (something Sara was thankful for) therefore she couldn't control her nervous tic. When she shook her leg anxiously Jane reminded her of a rabbit —and she honestly kinda looked like one: teeth too long and eyes too wide to be pretty.

She had the frown of a prey who had just noticed its hunter —maybe that's why Sara liked her.

"This dog fear of yours the Scarecrow has intensified, do you remember when it started?" Jane murmured with her high pitched voice.

She cleaned unnecessarily her glasses because she thought the gesture made her look more professional. Her eyes were brown and her hair was blond, dyed. She had a circle shaped face and the blouse she was wearing matched one of the paintings hanging on the walls —some abstract shit that looked like vomit.

Doctor Decker had been her therapist for a couple of years now although Sara stopped going to their sessions after the Scarecrow incident. Sara sighed before answering. "You know perfectly I don't remember anything from that time..."

There was a void inside her mind, from 1992 to 2000, eight years of emptiness.

She didn't know exactly how she ended up in New York of all places, nor how she had survived alone during those eight years. —Sara had been a ghost— not a person, just an spectre of what she used to be.

The exact moment in which she had suddenly gained conscience of herself and her surroundings once again had been just before almost committing suicide.

Funny, right?

She had been on a rooftop, in front of her a breathtaking view and an inevitable death below her feet. But instead of jumping she had admired her surroundings noticing she was no longer in Gotham. The last day she could recall perfectly was when she had been twelve, and suddenly she had been nineteen on that rooftop.

After a deep study Jane had diagnosed her with Dissociative Amnesia after an unspecified traumatic experience —although she believed said experience to be associated with dogs.

The therapist often suggested Yoga or meditation or even essential oils to try to unbury all the memories from those eight years but Sara never acted upon her suggestions. It was not because she though them to be useless but because she knew they might work, and she truly didn't want to know what had happened to her.

Yes, she wanted to see what hid behind her perfect mask but she was also terrified of what could be found underneath.

Those memories were like a big box dripping blood in the middle of her living room, she knew one day she would have to open the box and see what was inside —but she also knew she wouldn't like what she would find.

"Sara? -Sara are you feeling well?" Jane asked worried.

"Mh? Ehm... Yes, I- I'm just tired." That was her answer.

"Are you having dissociative episodes again? You told me you haven't had one of those since you came back to Gotham." They both knew the Scarecrow was to blame for her currently delicate mental stability —he had slightly opened that box covered in blood and now Sara couldn't pretend anymore it didn't exist. "Look, Sara- I think it's time for you to come face-to-face with those traumatic experience you want to keep buried. I understand it's scary but the Scarecrow incident has clearly triggered that trauma."

Sara looked at anything but Jane. There were two paintings a poster and the picture of Jane's graduation from med school there. The poster had a cat with exaggerated big eyes that were almost disturbing and stars everywhere with the words BE POSITIVE written. Sara hated it even more than the vomit painting. "Uh- No. I don't want- I don't need to know what happened. I just- I don't want to know. Look, I'm afraid of dogs, alright? Just that, it's no big deal. Remembering what happened during those years will not help me deal my fears."

"Not with that attitude." Jane said.

Sara stared at her —she was feeling attacked by her words and that made her angry— maybe Mr Pig wasn't as bad after all, Miss rabbit-face there seemed not to know when to shut her mouth. "I'm sensing a lot of gray energy coming from you and that can be fixed -It will help you with your fears Sara."

There was a pencil right next to Jane, Sara could stab her with it —maybe that would shut her up. "Alright, fine, whatever. You're the good doctor here."

"Great." She fixed her glasses once again and grabbed a notepad. "Let's talk about your childhood. How would you describe it?"

She focused on the deformed cat poster while talking. "I don't- It's kind of blurry. I remember my brother being four years younger than me although I don't remember his name -to be honest I'm not even sure he had a name at all."

"Everybody has a name, Sara." Jane commented and Sara had to hold back her tongue.

Not everyone had a name —not in her household at least.

Her father —who Sara never ever called 'dad' or even 'father' since he found it disrespectful— had believed names to be stupid; he had a nickname and that was what people called him. But nicknames had to be earned and in his opinion neither Sara nor her small brother had done anything to earn the luxury of having an identity —Therefore, they had no names.

She had chosen her name when she was nineteen in that rooftop —Sara Laughterfield— and since then that had been her identity, she had at least earned that.

"Let's try to find the core of your traumatic experience, focus on what's the last thing from your childhood that you remember." Jane had already written some things down about her posture and the way she expressed herself, a shadow casted upon her eyes whenever her family or childhood were mentioned.

She tried not to lose herself to the demons from her past— her mind was a burning house and madness was the emergency exit. She could either stay and try to extinguish the fire or run away towards insanity, she stayed; her dog still needed to be fed and she had to water her plastic plants again.

She cleared her throat. "My brother, the last thing I remember is my brother's death. After that everything is blank."

"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss." There was a hint of regret in her voice but Sara wasn't affected by the mention of the kid's death, she just didn't like talking about him. Jane smiled apologetic. "At least we are actually making progress, such a tragic event is probably the center of your tra- wait a minute. Did you just say you remember it?"

"Uh, yes. It is the last day of my life I remember before the eight years gap, I was devastated." She remembered it perfectly, it was something so terrible it became unforgettable.

"If you remember it then it is not the cause of your trauma, something else must have happened afterwards, something even more terrible than what happened to your brother..." Jane was writting everything down while Sara wanted to poke, she felt dizzy and it was hard to maintain focus. She didn't want to keep talking about it, she didn't want to remember what had happened in the basement.

The basement —that was the dog's cave.

No, no, no. Don't think about it.

Their father had warned them, he had told them that was the dog's cave —where he brought its preys to slaughter them— but their father had left them alone long enough for them to forget his warnings. Her brother had been nowhere to be found, she had looked for him everywhere —except the basement.

She had grabbed a flashlight and walked down the stairs slowly, terrified. She had smelled the blood and seen the dismembered body—oh, God, no.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

iii.

(jonathan crane)

THERE WAS A SONG on the radio, soft but the voice echoed through the building, cracked walls and dirty floors —insanity could be breathed in that place—. The woman with the radio on, black skinned with messy hair, was the only one at the reception near the grey room where they had sat him down, she was singing badly. Sweet Dreams (are made of this), the original. He could hear her even through the slightly sound isolated walls and he wanted to make her shut up —If it wasn't for his straight jacket he would have already done so.

He didn't know why he was there, wether it was Doctor Strange wanting to try another kind of electroshock or Doctor Quinzel eager to discuss some of his work —an odd one she was— but the guard outside the door confirmed it was neither. "You have a visit, Crane."

He would have expected anyone to come through that door —anyone except her. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you Doctor Crane."

Subject 7OT4662. With a beautiful expensive suit and a small purse at her side, her hair was up. He analyzed her carefully, without the fear provoked by his drug Sara did not seem much of a threat —she was even polite with him— but it was specifically that politeness what made him tense on his seat.

She should be terrified, she should fear him like the others subject —why didn't she?

Sara was smiling— and there was something unsetting in seeing someone he had psychologically tortured smile at him.

He could feel her eyes on him: he was thinner than before and her bite-marks could be seen over his neck, his hair was greasier and he looked insane —he knew he was but the voice inside his head confirmed it— Sara made no comments about his appearance, she sat down in front of him and thought about the words she was going to say at least three times before actually saying them out loud. "You must be wondering what am I doing here. Well, uhm- the thing is- I've got some questions and I think you're the only one who can help me answer them."

The room was small, dirty and it smelled like blood and urine, there was a table and two chairs one at each side —Sara on the left, him on the right.

Sara was nervous, he could see as much. He remained quiet for a couple more minutes thinking about his options noticing Sara's choice to visit him had been meticulously meditated. "Why would we help you?"

The pronoun used made her notice she didn't only had to convince Doctor Crane but also the lurking beast living inside his head. In his eyes there was eagerness for blood —how charming.

"Because you seem like the perfectionist type and I am an anomaly in your little... experiment. You want to know why the drug didn't work on me, so do I." There was no hesitation in her voice.

He wanted to kill her but that would come later, now he wanted to dissect her brain. "Very well then, when do we start?"

"Now. I- My therapist, Doctor Jane Decker -you might know her-, has a theory on why the toxin made me violent towards you." She started explaining and he listened— if he closed his eyes he could picture himself back in his office, with a notepad and a pen on his hands and a cup of white tea next to him. Those had been the times when he was a psychiatrist, before insanity took the best of him. "And I- you already know I have a dog phobia obviously but the thing is I'm diagnosed with Dissociative Amnesia."

His curiosity was what kept him from trying to attack Sara or insulting her. She was right, he was too perfectionist to not take advantage of this opportunity. "Dissociative Amnesia... How long is the period of time of missing memories?"

"Eight years" She explained what she had discussed that very same day with Jane. Eight years was a long time —he wished he could be free of the straight jacket to have freedom to write down everything Sara was telling him to contrast it with his previously written notes.

"Then, if your current therapist has been doing their job well they must know the traumatic experience which caused the amnesia was probably also the one that caused the unusual behaviour under the effects of my new toxin." He explained like the professor he once had been.

"Yes- and I get it, it makes sense. But I don't understand why I am afraid of dogs, I can't recall any traumatic experience involving them." Her nervousness didn't make her any less intimidating, she had studied Law and for such career a strong characters was needed. A sharp-mind isn't something people are born with, it need to be sharpened and for that you need to find yourself in a situation where you're helpless enough to turn your mind into a weapon. "I can tell you for sure there something that doesn't make sense about my fear of dogs."

"You did allude to a dog during the experiment, also talked about a child. You mentioned killing the dog." Her eyes went wild and she stopped breathing for a brief second, as if she had just noticed something terrible.

"That... The kid, that is a memory from my childhood I remember perfectly. It is not- It cannot be, It doesn't make sense." There was a hint of fear in her voice he was delighted to hear —music to his ears— but there was something else, he had worked long enough on Arkham to notice when someone is on the edge between sanity and madness and Sara Laughterfield was walking like a drunk clown on that edge —it was only a matter of time before she fell.

"What doesn't make any sense?" He asked wetting his lips with his tongue —her answer was fascinating.

Sara glanced at his icy blue eyes which made him see the exact moment in which her pretty mask started to crack. "I remember seeing kid die, I could never forget it, but- there was no dog there. We never had a dog."

AUTHOR'S NOTE— (hi, I hope you liked this chapter. I only did one year of psychology in highschool so I don't really know much about it, according to Google Dissociative Amnesia happens after a traumatic experience and it is a defense mechanism to protect you from said experience. If her brother's death had been the origin od the trauma she wouldn't remember it, therefore, it isn't. In the next chapter Jason Todd will appear, maybe the Joker too)

"Why did you attack the Scarecrow?" The question ledt his lips before he could stop it, the answer itself was simple —because she was under the effect of the drug— but what he wanted to know was why it had been him and not the dogs or the other victims.

Bruce looked at her conflicted eyes, her fingers were still touching his. When he let go Sara answered him. "Because he was a bad dog."

ii.

(sara laughterfield)

ONLY TWELVE MINUTES into the therapy session with Jane Decker and Sara already wanted to kill her.

She didn't, obviously —but she wanted to.

All that Chakra healing and guided meditation shit made her want to try her Slap Chop on Jane's face, but it was only a temporary feeling. Then, Jane smiled at her kindly and asked her about her week with honest concern —she was passionate about her job and that made her worry about her patients— she often rambled because of an hyperactivity disorder she had, Jane was against medication (something Sara was thankful for) therefore she couldn't control her nervous tic. When she shook her leg anxiously Jane reminded her of a rabbit —and she honestly kinda looked like one: teeth too long and eyes too wide to be pretty.

She had the frown of a prey who had just noticed its hunter —maybe that's why Sara liked her.

"This dog fear of yours the Scarecrow has intensified, do you remember when it started?" Jane murmured with her high pitched voice.

She cleaned unnecessarily her glasses because she thought the gesture made her look more professional. Her eyes were brown and her hair was blond, dyed. She had a circle shaped face and the blouse she was wearing matched one of the paintings hanging on the walls —some abstract shit that looked like vomit.

Doctor Decker had been her therapist for a couple of years now although Sara stopped going to their sessions after the Scarecrow incident. Sara sighed before answering. "You know perfectly I don't remember anything from that time..."

There was a void inside her mind, from 1992 to 2000, eight years of emptiness.

She didn't know exactly how she ended up in New York of all places, nor how she had survived alone during those eight years. —Sara had been a ghost— not a person, just an spectre of what she used to be.

The exact moment in which she had suddenly gained conscience of herself and her surroundings once again had been just before almost committing suicide.

Funny, right?

She had been on a rooftop, in front of her a breathtaking view and an inevitable death below her feet. But instead of jumping she had admired her surroundings noticing she was no longer in Gotham. The last day she could recall perfectly was when she had been twelve, and suddenly she had been nineteen on that rooftop.

After a deep study Jane had diagnosed her with Dissociative Amnesia after an unspecified traumatic experience —although she believed said experience to be associated with dogs.

The therapist often suggested Yoga or meditation or even essential oils to try to unbury all the memories from those eight years but Sara never acted upon her suggestions. It was not because she though them to be useless but because she knew they might work, and she truly didn't want to know what had happened to her.

Yes, she wanted to see what hid behind her perfect mask but she was also terrified of what could be found underneath.

Those memories were like a big box dripping blood in the middle of her living room, she knew one day she would have to open the box and see what was inside —but she also knew she wouldn't like what she would find.

"Sara? -Sara are you feeling well?" Jane asked worried.

"Mh? Ehm... Yes, I- I'm just tired." That was her answer.

"Are you having dissociative episodes again? You told me you haven't had one of those since you came back to Gotham." They both knew the Scarecrow was to blame for her currently delicate mental stability —he had slightly opened that box covered in blood and now Sara couldn't pretend anymore it didn't exist. "Look, Sara- I think it's time for you to come face-to-face with those traumatic experience you want to keep buried. I understand it's scary but the Scarecrow incident has clearly triggered that trauma."

Sara looked at anything but Jane. There were two paintings a poster and the picture of Jane's graduation from med school there. The poster had a cat with exaggerated big eyes that were almost disturbing and stars everywhere with the words BE POSITIVE written. Sara hated it even more than the vomit painting. "Uh- No. I don't want- I don't need to know what happened. I just- I don't want to know. Look, I'm afraid of dogs, alright? Just that, it's no big deal. Remembering what happened during those years will not help me deal my fears."

"Not with that attitude." Jane said.

Sara stared at her —she was feeling attacked by her words and that made her angry— maybe Mr Pig wasn't as bad after all, Miss rabbit-face there seemed not to know when to shut her mouth. "I'm sensing a lot of gray energy coming from you and that can be fixed -It will help you with your fears Sara."

There was a pencil right next to Jane, Sara could stab her with it —maybe that would shut her up. "Alright, fine, whatever. You're the good doctor here."

"Great." She fixed her glasses once again and grabbed a notepad. "Let's talk about your childhood. How would you describe it?"

She focused on the deformed cat poster while talking. "I don't- It's kind of blurry. I remember my brother being four years younger than me although I don't remember his name -to be honest I'm not even sure he had a name at all."

"Everybody has a name, Sara." Jane commented and Sara had to hold back her tongue.

Not everyone had a name —not in her household at least.

Her father —who Sara never ever called 'dad' or even 'father' since he found it disrespectful— had believed names to be stupid; he had a nickname and that was what people called him. But nicknames had to be earned and in his opinion neither Sara nor her small brother had done anything to earn the luxury of having an identity —Therefore, they had no names.

She had chosen her name when she was nineteen in that rooftop —Sara Laughterfield— and since then that had been her identity, she had at least earned that.

"Let's try to find the core of your traumatic experience, focus on what's the last thing from your childhood that you remember." Jane had already written some things down about her posture and the way she expressed herself, a shadow casted upon her eyes whenever her family or childhood were mentioned.

She tried not to lose herself to the demons from her past— her mind was a burning house and madness was the emergency exit. She could either stay and try to extinguish the fire or run away towards insanity, she stayed; her dog still needed to be fed and she had to water her plastic plants again.

She cleared her throat. "My brother, the last thing I remember is my brother's death. After that everything is blank."

"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss." There was a hint of regret in her voice but Sara wasn't affected by the mention of the kid's death, she just didn't like talking about him. Jane smiled apologetic. "At least we are actually making progress, such a tragic event is probably the center of your tra- wait a minute. Did you just say you remember it?"

"Uh, yes. It is the last day of my life I remember before the eight years gap, I was devastated." She remembered it perfectly, it was something so terrible it became unforgettable.

"If you remember it then it is not the cause of your trauma, something else must have happened afterwards, something even more terrible than what happened to your brother..." Jane was writting everything down while Sara wanted to poke, she felt dizzy and it was hard to maintain focus. She didn't want to keep talking about it, she didn't want to remember what had happened in the basement.

The basement —that was the dog's cave.

No, no, no. Don't think about it.

Their father had warned them, he had told them that was the dog's cave —where he brought its preys to slaughter them— but their father had left them alone long enough for them to forget his warnings. Her brother had been nowhere to be found, she had looked for him everywhere —except the basement.

She had grabbed a flashlight and walked down the stairs slowly, terrified. She had smelled the blood and seen the dismembered body—oh, God, no.

There was a kid and a dog, the dog killed the kid, she killed the dog.

iii.

(jonathan crane)

THERE WAS A SONG on the radio, soft but the voice echoed through the building, cracked walls and dirty floors —insanity could be breathed in that place—. The woman with the radio on, black skinned with messy hair, was the only one at the reception near the grey room where they had sat him down, she was singing badly. Sweet Dreams (are made of this), the original. He could hear her even through the slightly sound isolated walls and he wanted to make her shut up —If it wasn't for his straight jacket he would have already done so.

He didn't know why he was there, wether it was Doctor Strange wanting to try another kind of electroshock or Doctor Quinzel eager to discuss some of his work —an odd one she was— but the guard outside the door confirmed it was neither. "You have a visit, Crane."

He would have expected anyone to come through that door —anyone except her. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you Doctor Crane."

Subject 7OT4662. With a beautiful expensive suit and a small purse at her side, her hair was up. He analyzed her carefully, without the fear provoked by his drug Sara did not seem much of a threat —she was even polite with him— but it was specifically that politeness what made him tense on his seat.

She should be terrified, she should fear him like the others subject —why didn't she?

Sara was smiling— and there was something unsetting in seeing someone he had psychologically tortured smile at him.

He could feel her eyes on him: he was thinner than before and her bite-marks could be seen over his neck, his hair was greasier and he looked insane —he knew he was but the voice inside his head confirmed it— Sara made no comments about his appearance, she sat down in front of him and thought about the words she was going to say at least three times before actually saying them out loud. "You must be wondering what am I doing here. Well, uhm- the thing is- I've got some questions and I think you're the only one who can help me answer them."

The room was small, dirty and it smelled like blood and urine, there was a table and two chairs one at each side —Sara on the left, him on the right.

Sara was nervous, he could see as much. He remained quiet for a couple more minutes thinking about his options noticing Sara's choice to visit him had been meticulously meditated. "Why would we help you?"

The pronoun used made her notice she didn't only had to convince Doctor Crane but also the lurking beast living inside his head. In his eyes there was eagerness for blood —how charming.

"Because you seem like the perfectionist type and I am an anomaly in your little... experiment. You want to know why the drug didn't work on me, so do I." There was no hesitation in her voice.

He wanted to kill her but that would come later, now he wanted to dissect her brain. "Very well then, when do we start?"

"Now. I- My therapist, Doctor Jane Decker -you might know her-, has a theory on why the toxin made me violent towards you." She started explaining and he listened— if he closed his eyes he could picture himself back in his office, with a notepad and a pen on his hands and a cup of white tea next to him. Those had been the times when he was a psychiatrist, before insanity took the best of him. "And I- you already know I have a dog phobia obviously but the thing is I'm diagnosed with Dissociative Amnesia."

His curiosity was what kept him from trying to attack Sara or insulting her. She was right, he was too perfectionist to not take advantage of this opportunity. "Dissociative Amnesia... How long is the period of time of missing memories?"

"Eight years" She explained what she had discussed that very same day with Jane. Eight years was a long time —he wished he could be free of the straight jacket to have freedom to write down everything Sara was telling him to contrast it with his previously written notes.

"Then, if your current therapist has been doing their job well they must know the traumatic experience which caused the amnesia was probably also the one that caused the unusual behaviour under the effects of my new toxin." He explained like the professor he once had been.

"Yes- and I get it, it makes sense. But I don't understand why I am afraid of dogs, I can't recall any traumatic experience involving them." Her nervousness didn't make her any less intimidating, she had studied Law and for such career a strong characters was needed. A sharp-mind isn't something people are born with, it need to be sharpened and for that you need to find yourself in a situation where you're helpless enough to turn your mind into a weapon. "I can tell you for sure there something that doesn't make sense about my fear of dogs."

"You did allude to a dog during the experiment, also talked about a child. You mentioned killing the dog." Her eyes went wild and she stopped breathing for a brief second, as if she had just noticed something terrible.

"That... The kid, that is a memory from my childhood I remember perfectly. It is not- It cannot be, It doesn't make sense." There was a hint of fear in her voice he was delighted to hear —music to his ears— but there was something else, he had worked long enough on Arkham to notice when someone is on the edge between sanity and madness and Sara Laughterfield was walking like a drunk clown on that edge —it was only a matter of time before she fell.

"What doesn't make any sense?" He asked wetting his lips with his tongue —her answer was fascinating.

Sara glanced at his icy blue eyes which made him see the exact moment in which her pretty mask started to crack. "I remember seeing kid die, I could never forget it, but- there was no dog there. We never had a dog."

AUTHOR'S NOTE— (hi, I hope you liked this chapter. I only did one year of psychology in highschool so I don't really know much about it, according to Google Dissociative Amnesia happens after a traumatic experience and it is a defense mechanism to protect you from said experience. If her brother's death had been the origin od the trauma she wouldn't remember it, therefore, it isn't. In the next chapter Jason Todd will appear, maybe the Joker too)


End file.
